


This Magic Moment

by luninosity



Series: The Adventures of Sometimes-A-Kitten James and Extra-Protective Michael [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Angst and Humor, Animal Transformation, Cat!James, Crack, Don't Annoy The Interns, Fluff and Crack, Happy Ending, Humor, Kittens, Love Confessions, M/M, Temporary Transformation, Totally Human Again By The End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which James gets turned into a kitten for a day.  Plus some panicking Michael—James is missing!—and overdoses of adorable. Also, there’s a Monty Python reference in there somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Magic Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Drifters—I like classic oldies, you’re lucky it’s not Sinatra—anyway, title from “This Magic Moment”: _and then it happened/ it took me by surprise…_

It’s a wet day. Rainy. The skies’re crying, on and off. On, right now.

Of course they are. They know exactly what’s just happened.

James stares at Michael staring at him. His own words hang in the air: _I was just thinking, if you wanted, if you were in the mood for dinner, later, we could get dinner, I mean you and me, I mean I’m asking you out, I mean I think this has been the best two weeks of filming of my life, or just of my life ever, and that’s because of you and I thought maybe if you wanted to also then we could, um, dinner?_

Michael’d stopped walking, beside him. Blinked. Twice. Said, eloquently, nothing.

“I’m so sorry,” James says, flailing now, as the rain plops onto his hair and face and sneaks down his shirt collar despite all of Charles’s suit layers. He’s cold everywhere already, he doesn’t need the reminder, thanks. “I’m so sorry, I’ll just—go and—do something. Away from you. Right.”

“…James?” Michael murmurs, sounding dumbfounded. The rain catches in his eyelashes and makes them sparkle and James hates himself for noticing that now.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, just—just forget I said anything, please, we’ll just—we can pretend this never happened and we’ll be friends and I’ll see you tomorrow and—and I promise I’m going now, I’ll leave you alone, I swear—” and then forces his legs into motion because clearly his mouth isn’t going to give up on its own.

Michael still hasn’t moved. James backs up, nearly trips over a camera crane, spins around, and runs.  
  
Once he’s out of sight of those astonished lakewater eyes, he can breathe a bit better, except then he thinks about what a complete and total idiot he’s just made of himself, and then has to lean against the closest trailer wall—Kevin’s, he’s pretty sure—for support. The world turns slowly into muddy greys and browns, around him.

That’s about right. Not like there’re any bright colors left in his immediate future.

Michael hadn’t _said_ anything. Had stood there looking all shocked and mute and disbelieving, and somehow still beautiful, hair curling upwards with the damp and rainwater dripping onto those broad shoulders and slightly parted lips that make James want to lean up and kiss them and find out if Michael actually tastes like the sinfully black coffee he drinks in the mornings or—

“Oh, fuck me,” he says, to the aluminum trailer-side. Compassionately, it refuses to answer.

The rain gets harder, though. Of course it does.

“I didn’t say you could have any input,” he tells the drops. “You’re not helping.” In reply, the thunder snickers.

It’d been such a _good_ day. That was why he’d asked, really, in the aftermath of the scene, himself pretending to telepathically face down a guard dog and a host of soldiers, Michael reaching over—not in the script—to squeeze his leg in support, leaving the hand there, large and warm on his knee. That hand had been offered again as they hopped out of the truck, unnecessary assistance that James’d taken, and he’d looked up into pale happy eyes and hadn’t been able to hold back the question.

He’s never been great at keeping secrets. Just not comfortable with concealment. Somewhat ironic, maybe, for an actor, always disappearing into characters; or maybe not. All those emotions, all those longing looks Charles tosses at Erik, those are all real, after all.

And on the heels of that thought, his acting ability gets severely tested, as one of the interns bounces up to him, all smiles. “Mr McAvoy? Oh I mean James you told us to call you—”

“Yes, I absolutely did—” Oh, god, what _is_ her name? “—Tara, how’re the nieces?”

“They’re brilliant and they loved the autographed Mr Tumnus dolls and thank you and also Mr Vaughn needs you back on the set because there was a problem with the film and that last scene isn’t usable and you look worried can I help?”

“Um, sorry, no. It’s—I’m fine, thank you. I’ll be right there. I promise. You can go tell him.” He flashes a smile at her. Seems to work well enough, because she sparkles a grin back at him and runs off through the rain. Alone, James sags against the trailer one more time.

Oh, fuck. And other words of that nature. _That_ scene. With Michael. Being that close to Michael. Again.

He can’t. He honestly can’t.

Except he has to, because he’s a professional.

He stands up. Takes a deep breath, or as much as he can through the inconvenient rain, and starts walking himself and his incipient headache back towards the set.

When he’s halfway there, a different intern runs over to tell him that in fact there seem to be some technical difficulties due to the unrelenting cloudbursts and he should probably just find someplace to wait, except he should _also_ probably see the makeup department first because he’s looking kind of pale, and James stands there in the mud and briefly hates his life.

He turns around and trudges back toward his trailer so that he can collapse for a while, out of sight. Because he’s determinedly not thinking about anything at all, and especially not where Michael might be at the moment and what those multihued eyes’re contemplating, he’s not paying attention to anyone around him, and consequently almost runs into yet another intern. They’re multiplying like _bunnies_.

“Sorry, sorry, Steve—totally my fault, here—”

“No, it’s fine, don’t worry, you don’t have to look worried, but listen, while I’ve got you here—” Evidently there are downsides to _not_ terrifying the interns.

“—you know I’m doing that charity thing? Animal rescue? And I was wondering if you could donate? Because it always helps to have celebrities involved? And kittens are an awesome cause? And you could—”

“Steve,” James attempts, futilely.

“—do a lot of good, and you’re such a nice person, I sort of already put your name down, and if you ever wanted a kitten we could totally find one for you—”

“Steve!”

Steve stops. Looks at him with wounded eyes.

James sighs. “Listen, please, I just can’t—not right now, okay? Ask me again later. Tomorrow. Please.”

“Tomorrow might be too late, kittens get abandoned every _minute_ —”

“Steve,” James says, “at the moment, I really don’t fucking care,” and then, because that’s not true and he does care, or he will tomorrow, “sorry, sorry, I just—”

“You _bastard_ ,” Steve hisses, and then mutters something else that doesn’t sound like English, followed by a menacing glare, and then backs up, clutching his clipboard, and runs away.

James blinks after him for a moment, then decides that the rain is clearly making everyone crazy, and that this is _not_ his fault, though he’ll try apologizing again later anyway, and gets his feet back into action and eventually falls down on his creaky old sofa and never wants to get up.

The rain pounds away. So does his head. James closes his eyes, and pretends, just for a second, that he’ll wake up in a world that’s magically all right again.

 

When he opens his eyes, the world _is_ different. For one thing, much larger. Horrifyingly so. From a bizarre tilted perspective, as if he’s shrunk in his sleep. And everything’s confusingly brighter and dimmer at once, more light but less color, a washed out universe with faded hues, mostly blues and greens and greys.

Oh god. Oh god, it wasn’t just a headache, and there’s something very wrong, and he needs some sort of medical help _right the fuck now—_

At which point he tries to sit up, and his body is much lighter than it should be, and curves in terrifying ways, and when he puts a hand out to catch his balance it’s a _fluffy kitten paw_.

A paw. His hand. Is a paw.

James panics and twists around and falls off the sofa in a tangle of clothing, hearing something rip and tear as he kicks his way free, and that’s not right either, and when he hits the floor he’s tiny and he lands on four feet, what the _hell_ , and he bolts over to the full-length mirror and stares, frantic.

A tortoiseshell fluffball stares back at him, enormous-eyed and dismayed.

At least he still has blue eyes. Somehow that’s the only thought he’s got left. He knows that’s his gaze, because he knows those eyes, complicated legacy from his nonpresent father, the brilliant depth of color that he’s always regarded with mixed emotions, beautiful and bittersweet.

Right now, he’s both pathetically grateful for those eyes, and horrified, because those _are_ his eyes, and so this must be him, fur sticking up in every direction out of sheer shock.

He’s a cat. Not even a cat. A _kitten_. An adorable cuddly harmless-looking kitten. What the _fuck_ —

Steve. Steve did this to him. Some sort of curse. Some kind of revenge for James not helping the damn cats.

He hears growling. It’s coming from him. It’s a real sound. This is all real.

“Help,” he says, feebly, to the cat in the mirror. The word emerges as a feline whimper. Of course it does.

Okay. Okay, well. He can go find Steve and say, yes, all right, point made, lesson learned, now make it stop, and this will all be a bad dream, right?

Right, James thinks, desperately, and turns around and leaps for the door, sparing a second to be glad he hadn’t locked it upon arrival. It’s a helpful knob, too, the sort that has a nice long handle, and after a few missed jumps he manages to hook it with a paw.

Jumps’re a bit tricky. Not so much because he’s unpracticed—the cat body just sort of seems to know how this goes—but because he’s tiny. Because he’s not even a full-size cat. He wants to growl again.

The rain’s bucketing down, and he’s drenched within seconds. Too late, he recognizes that this was not perhaps the most intelligent plan he could’ve envisioned.

He scampers through the mud, which clings wetly to his fur. The people all look the same, from this far down. Legs. Booming voices. Damp clothing. A few of them notice him; one or two try to scoop him up. James evades clutching hands, heart pounding, and leaps into a puddle.

 _That_ person has a clipboard and is accosting passersby. Probably the right one, then.

“You did this!” he shrieks, from the ground, and is immensely gratified when Steve turns around, looking guiltily surprised. “Oh…”

“Oh, what a cute kitten,” says Rose, and James yells, “I am not cute!” and the objection comes out as a lengthy wail.

“Sorry, he’s not very well-behaved,” Steve says, and reaches down and _picks him up_ , which. _No_. James tries to scratch him, furiously.

“Right,” Rose says, “so I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” and escapes. James, nose to nose with his nemesis, glares.

“I’m really sorry,” Steve says, looking contrite, and also a bit entertained. “I lost my temper. Didn’t mean to.”

“You—you— _Change me back right the fuck now!”_

“I, um. I could try, but…the thing is, I’m not actually a very good witch.” Steve looks miserable, now. Good, except for how his misery is ruining James’s actual life. “The spell’s supposed to last for twenty-four hours, and…I could try taking it off sooner, but…I, um, might end up turning you into something else. Or getting you stuck this way. I—”

“You turned me into a kitten!”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Just put me down.”

“It’s raining and it’s all wet and you’re going to get even more muddy—”

“I. Don’t. Care.”

Steve sets him down on a chair, very carefully. James turns his back, and adamantly pretends to be washing his tail despite the rain, because that seems like the appropriate course of action at the moment.

Twenty-four hours. One day. Okay. He can handle that. He can think of it like…a role. A character. And then he might not end up entirely insane. As long as he can keep equating his current feline status with his chosen profession.

He’s doomed.

As if to underscore this conclusion, the universe provides him with extra horror, in the shape of the large friendly German Shepherd he’d been filming with just a few short hours ago. She’s a nice dog. Happy. Very enthusiastic.

She catches one sight of James sitting on his chair and lets out a series of gleeful barks and lunges in his direction. She more than likely just wants to play, somewhere in the rational human part of his mind he knows that, but the cat-brain opts for flight, and James bolts.

He runs until he’s out of breath and exhausted, sides heaving, all of him plastered with mud and wetness, and he’s a _cat_ and he’s just run from a _dog_ and he’s hungry and tired and cold and, now, incredibly utterly lost, amid the sea of buildings and bodies.

He creeps under the nearest set of trailer steps, and curls into a dejected lump, and shivers, and lets himself cry, which sounds like a kitten crying, out loud, in the rain.

After a while, footsteps slosh through the puddles. The feet start to go up the stairs, then stop.

James doesn’t even bother trying to make himself understood. No one can hear him properly except Steve, and fuck _that_.

The person gets down on both knees, tiredly, and peeks under the steps. And the person is Michael.

Of all the steps he could’ve chosen to hide under, he’s chosen Michael’s.

“Ah…hello?” Michael peers into the gloom. “Um…here, kitty? C’mon, kitty-cat, come here…”

James tucks himself more tightly into his pathetic ball. No. No, no, no.

“Please,” Michael says, and that familiar voice catches on the words, “please, come on, let me help, let me be able to do the right thing for _someone_ —”

What?

James lifts his head to look. Michael’s biting his lip. There’s rain in his hair. And his outfit’s more soaked than it ought to be, on a film set where directors and assistants look after their actors and offer them warm waterproof blankets between takes.

Without thinking too much about it, he staggers to his feet and wobbles towards Michael’s outstretched hands. Michael sounds so _forlorn_.

“Thank you,” Michael whispers, and the long fingers reach out gently and collect his wet kitten body. “You—oh, you don’t weigh anything, and you’re half-frozen, come on, I can at least warm you up—”

And James finds himself wrapped in a towel, being vigorously dried off and bundled up in what looks like one of Michael’s spare shirts, and nestled down in a sort of clothing-burrow on Michael’s couch. Bemused, he stays quiet, and lets himself be fussed over.

“You’re probably hungry, aren’t you…” Michael stops hovering, briefly, and heads to the mini-fridge. “I’ve no idea what’s in here that you might eat. Um…not the half-bagel from this morning…cream cheese? Do cats like cream cheese? Not this, this is raspberry coffee creamer, that’s a surprise for…James…” There’s a pause. Michael doesn’t stand up, and doesn’t turn around; James can’t see his face.

“Right. Okay. Um, there’s normal milk, that should be good, right?” Which is how James ends up sticking his nose into a makeshift saucer of milk, created by Michael attacking one of the disposable coffee cups with bare hands and determination.

Milk is delicious, he has to admit. He’s never really appreciated its wonders before.

He’s drying out, and his fur is getting fluffier again. Michael sits down next to him and holds out a hand, an invitation; James sniffs fingertips, whiskers twitching. Michael smells like rainwater and worry and home.

“Sorry, that’s not real food, either. You’re awfully friendly, aren’t you? Can I pet you? Or, um, brush you—hang on, I’ve, um, got a comb, I think—”

The comb cheerfully sacrifices itself to get the drying mud out of James’s fur. He contemplates being embarrassed, but, well, it does feel nice to be clean. And Michael has very talented hands.

“That feels better, right? And you’re absolutely gorgeous, I wonder if you’re any specific breed…Do you belong to someone here? No, of course not, who’d bring you to set on a day when we’re filming with a dog?” Michael strokes him gently, ears to tail. “Did you get lost? Maybe I should ask whether anyone’s lost a kitten? Someone might be missing you. People miss other people, when they get lost.” And then, almost inaudible, Michael talking to himself, something that sounds like, “I know how that feels.”

James ponders possible responses, and then wiggles over, bonelessly, and insinuates himself onto Michael’s lap. Michael, startled, laughs. “All right, then. Make yourself at home.”

There’s a comfortable pause, in which the rain patters complacently off the windows and walls, and Michael cradles him in one arm as if trying to keep him safe, and James enjoys the cuddling. He’s not starving anymore—the milk took the edge off, at least—and he’s dry and not being chased by anything and Michael’s holding him and this ridiculous situation won’t last forever. There are worse places he could be.

“I didn’t actually mean to stay in this position, you know—can I move that leg? Sorry, sorry—here, settle back down. I need to be able to reach the phone…” Michael looks at the screen as if it might hold the hope of the universe, but obviously doesn’t find what he’s looking for, because he lets out a tiny sigh and sets the phone down on the couch. James stops objecting to all the motion with pointy kitten-claws, and looks up at Michael instead, curious.

“Such pretty eyes. They kind of—you almost look like—no, god, now I’m just seeing him everywhere. Fuck.” Michael tips his head back against the couch. Sighs. James sighs too, wistfully.

“Oh…more petting? Sure. Sorry. Hey, you don’t know where James is, do you?” Michael scratches under his chin with one careful finger. “No, you probably don’t. No one seems to.”

 _Mrow?_ James inquires, intrigued. He’s not been gone _that_ long, has he?

“James…you’d like him, kitty. Everyone likes him. I—well. Everyone likes him.” Michael pauses, bites his lip, goes back to scratching. “Except he’s—he never made it back to the set. The interns said they saw him, and then…nothing. And that’s not like him, not at all, I know you don’t know him, but he’s the most dedicated person I know, the _best_ person I know, and he wants the best for everyone else too, he’d never not show up when he said he’d be there. No matter what. No matter how badly I—he’d still be there and smile and make us all smile along. And…”

Michael thinks that James is a good person? The best person he knows? And? And _what?_

He tips his head to the side and says _mrr?_ and Michael smiles, painfully, and rubs his ears. “And…oh, kitty…we looked for him. When he didn’t—I looked for him. I went back to his trailer, and—and the door was open, and his phone was on the floor, and his clothes were ripped—” That sentence stops, very fast.

The rain pours down, beyond the walls.

James, helplessly, turns his head and licks the nearest hand. That last part’s his fault, not that he’d expected any of this. He doesn’t know how to make it okay.

A knock rattles the door in its frame. Michael sprints across the room, setting James to one side, but gently so. “It’s open—come in—who is it— _James_?”

“No, sorry.” Kevin Bacon holds up both hands, apologetically. “Only me.”

“Oh…sorry, come in…”

“No, it’s fine. I just wanted to come by and tell you…well, not much, really. No new developments. No one’s left the set all day, no vehicles anyway, and no one’s seen James anywhere since this afternoon, and everyone at the hotel is our people, and they’re all accounted for, no one missing. No one…else. Sorry. You haven’t heard anything, either?”

“No…nothing…and there’re no leads, no, I don’t know, footprints, anything—”

“No. It’s like he just vanished. Thin air.” Kevin sighs. Puts out a hand and grips Michael’s shoulder, as if preparing to offer support. “Matthew thinks it might be time to call the police.”

Even from the couch, James can see Michael’s face go white.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin says.

“James…”

“I know. Listen, it’s only been a few hours, and we don’t know anything for sure, he might still turn up, just walk out of nowhere grinning and surprise us all…”

“You don’t actually believe that…”

Kevin squeezes Michael’s shoulder again. Hard. “I believe that we don’t know anything yet. Good or bad. Okay?”

“…okay. Yes. Thank you.”

“We’re done for today, obviously, and Matthew’s got a security detail to take us all back to the hotel. I think he doesn’t want to lose anyone else…oh, damn, _damn_ , don’t look like that, I didn’t mean it that way. You know what I mean.”

Michael nods, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Okay,” Kevin says, “five minutes, then, and someone’ll walk us out to the cars,” and leaves.

James looks at Michael; Michael looks back, and then, apparently, reads his mind. And doesn’t leave him, doesn’t abandon him; collects him, gently, wrapped up in the shirt again and protected from the rain with tender fierceness, and if anyone wants to say anything about Michael bringing a cat back to the hotel, it only takes one look at those eyes for them all to think better of potential objections.

Michael takes him up into a hotel room that looks like a much neater version of James’s own, and sets him on the bed, and then says, “Oh, sorry, here—” and turns up the heat. “I like it cold, at night, I can never sleep when I’m warm, but you probably need the heat, don’t you? You’re not very big.”

James attempts to scowl. Cats are good at that, right?

Michael grins, fleetingly, and then picks up the phone and orders room service, and James forgives him everything when a tuna-fish sandwich arrives and Michael peels away the bread and then sets the plate out for him.

Contented, stomach full, he sprawls across the sheets and sheds kitten-hair on Michael’s neatness and doesn’t even care when Michael pats his stomach and then laughs. “That probably isn’t healthy for you, you know. I think you’ve just doubled your weight.”

James, attention caught by the scent of more tuna, pricks whiskers towards Michael’s fingers and the pieces of bread; Michael laughs again. “Hey, you got most of it, at least let me have the outside. Anyway, cats don’t eat bread.”

That’s what you think, James tells him, but the words turn into a yawn along the way. Michael stretches out on the bed beside him, and nibbles distractedly on the remains of the sandwich, and worried little creases keep deepening around his eyes, even as one hand gets back to kitten-petting duties.

“So…no tag, no collar…no name. But I feel like I ought to have something to call you.” Michael scratches behind his ears, gently. This prompts a low rumbling sound, which after a second James recognizes as coming from himself. Okay. Evidently he purrs when Michael pets him. Which is…not actually much of a surprise.

“I could call you Magneto. Except James would probably laugh and tell me you look like a Charles. James would—” The hand pauses. So does the voice. After a second, Michael lets out a small unhappy breath of air. Goes back to scratching.

“How do you feel about being a Charles-cat? Or—I guess I don’t even know whether you’re a boy or a girl. Charlotte? Maybe I should check?”

James, horrified, bolts upright and flattens his ears down and glares. He’s definitely a boy cat, thank you. And while under ordinary mutually human circumstances he’d be quite pleased to let Michael discover those aspects of his anatomy, there is no way that that exploration, at this particular moment, can be anything less than traumatic for them both.

“Okay, got it.” Michael holds up both hands in surrender. “Not trying to offend your dignity. You know, I swear you understand every word I say…”

James wants to roll his eyes, and can’t quite manage that either.

“I’m sorry, Charles-cat.” Michael pets his head, with apologetic fingers. Mollified, James flops back down against that lean warmth. Rolls onto his back, paws in the air, just because.

“I really am sorry.” That Irish-springtime voice sounds mournful, now. Harpsong and tragedies. James blinks. Gazes upside down at Michael’s face. Michael blinks too, more rapidly.

“I’m just fucking things up for everyone, today, I think. You, and James…oh, god, James. That look on his face—earlier I kept wishing for some—some second chance, some kind of extra take, some way to say the right fucking words and tell him yes, always, I only didn’t say anything because I was so surprised, I never thought—the whole world brightens up when he walks into a room, he could have anyone he wanted, I never imagined he’d want me—” The hand petting his stomach stops and curls into his fur. In distress.

“Now I’m just wishing he’ll walk through the door. Or turn up on set. Or call. Me, anyone, I don’t care, just please let him be all right. Please. Please let him be all right.”

No proper tears, as badly as James wants to cry at that moment. Michael’s hurt. Hurt and grieving and confused and afraid. Afraid for _him_.

Michael would’ve answered yes. Wanted to answer yes. Wants him.

If he’d been human, he’d’ve flung arms around those lean shoulders and never let go.

Of course, he’s not human. Which is, if not the only problem, certainly the most conspicuous.

Instead of the hug, he bumps his head against Michael’s hand, as forcefully as he can. Purrs more loudly. When Michael gives a small watery laugh, stretches up and pats at one damp cheek with a fluffy paw. Michael laughs again, through the emotion, and James considers this a success, as far as comforting can go at the moment.

“Thanks, Charles-cat. Listen, I know I should take you to a vet, or a shelter, or something, it’s not like I can keep you, but…maybe just for tonight? I’m…kind of glad you’re here.”

James is glad, too. He wraps paws around Michael’s fingertips, playfully, no claws. Holds on. And they hold each other, for a while, under the rain.

Michael falls asleep around three in the morning, after struggling for hours not to; he has James folded securely into the crook of one arm, and his other hand clinging to his mobile phone. James rests his fuzzy chin on Michael’s forearm, thinking.

He feels a little guilty for feeling so happy. And he’s _not_ happy, exactly; he’s still a kitten, and Michael’s still scared and heartbroken and kind of unnaturally tidy, which might be an issue if they ever end up in James’s bed, or room, or residence, after all this. But despite everything, he can’t help the sneaky little flowering of optimism.

Michael wants him. And they’re here together, and neither one of them has to be alone.

The mobile phone shrills, blatantly disruptive. James squeaks back at it, startled, and Michael jerks upright, swearing in multiple languages.

 “James? Oh—oh, Kevin…no, I’ve not heard anything either…no, I don’t know. No calls, no messages, nothing—do you want me to check with—oh, Matthew did? And they don’t—fuck!” One hand thumps into a pillow, frustrated and frightened. James watches, wide-eyed and with fur fluffing out all down his back. It’s a reflex. Really.

“Did they ask about anyone visiting the set? Anyone not cleared, or vouched for, or—things sometimes fucking _happen_ , Kevin, you know they do, people get kidnapped or—or—oh, christ.” Michael covers his eyes with one hand, shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry. I know—I’m sorry. Yes, I’ll call you if I hear anything. Thanks.”

The phone drifts downward onto the bed. Michael follows, hopelessly, crumbling apart before James’s eyes, not making any noise, loss too palpable for sound.

James scoots a bit closer. Nudges his head into an elbow.

Michael looks up at the unanticipated contact. Gradually, registers James’s spooked-fluffy fur. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Come here.”

James purrs, cautiously. Tries to tempt Michael into holding him again. At first the hands are hesitant, as if trying not to scare him; and then, when James peers into his face and stands up on back legs to tap at Michael’s nose, it’s like a dam breaking, and the tears fall.

“Oh, _kitty_ ,” Michael whispers, and reaches for him, and buries his face in James’s fur, “he’s gone, he’s missing, and I—what if I never see him again? What if he’s—oh, god, I never _answered_ him, he’s gone and he’s thinking that I don’t—I never told him that I love him—”

Michael’s tears are very wet. They soak through all the fur to his skin. James purrs more, as loudly as he can; bumps his head against Michael’s, and pats one shaking hand with a paw: everything, anything, he can think of. And he wants to weep, too. It’s not fair. It’s not right. This is _his_ stupid curse or what-the-fuck-ever. Michael shouldn’t have to be the one in pain.

The rain drums away, unceasing.

On any other night, any normal night, there’d be new call sheets and script pages, the schedules and expectations for the upcoming days, being slipped under the door.

No call sheets or pages appear. Of course not. Nothing’s normal about this day.

Wait. Call sheets. With schedules. With _names_.

He leaps out of Michael’s arms. Michael keeps his paperwork in a tidy stack on the bedside table, corners all aligned, or at least they are until James grabs the top sheet, yesterday’s, in his teeth.

“Hey—” Michael sits up, tear-tracks and all. “What’re you—come on, I need that—”

James hops back over to the bed. Sits down, forcefully. When Michael tries to take the paper away, digs claws in and holds on.

“Okay, I know kittens need playtime, but seriously, this is work…” Michael makes another attempt. James smacks his hand with a paw, claws sheathed, and goes back to scanning for his own name.

There. Six am. He’d loathed the early morning, at the time. Thought it’d be a brutal day. He’d had no idea.

He taps at the page, above his name. Michael clearly fails to understand this logical gesture, instead getting up from the bed and looking around for a toy to distract him. “Is this normal cat behavior? Wouldn’t you rather have a shoelace, or something?”

James extends claws. Scratches an underline, clumsily, beneath his name. Then looks at Michael’s face. Then does it again.

“You…that almost looked like you did it on purpose…are you…you’re not trying to tell me something…”

James nods, emphatically. Up and down. One more underline. The paper, not made to stand up to determined cat-claws, rips. But that’s okay, because Michael’s staring, still standing beside the bed and gazing from James to the shreds.

Michael opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks, by turns, incredulous, then hopeful, then confused. Then asks, carefully, as if expecting the video cameras to pop up at any moment, “James?”

 _Oh thank god yes!_ James shouts, which comes out as an excited _mrrowp!_ But, close enough, so he nods again, an unnatural movement for a cat but that’s just further proof, if needed.

“Oh, god,” Michael says, weakly, “I think I need to sit down,” and then suits actions to words, sinking down onto the foot of the bed. James hops up next to him. Tilts his head. Purrs as reassuringly as he can.

“Okay…okay, so…James? Seriously? Okay…is this a…a thing? Like…werewolves—or were…cats, I guess, sorry—”

James puts his ears back. Glares.

“No, sorry, all right…so this isn’t usual, for you…is this—did something happen? Did someone—oh, fuck, I honestly can’t believe I’m saying this out loud—did someone turn you into a cat?”

James’s empathic yes-yowl comes out loud enough to make Michael wince. “That’s a yes, right? Someone did this to you? Someone—tell me who it is.” And James kind of wants to laugh, because evidently Michael’s capable of moving from incredulousness to protective outrage in under two seconds, when James’s welfare is at stake.

He’s not sure how to explain, though; it’s not as if he can provide words to answer that question. Michael seems to realize the problem at almost the same instant. Glances around the room. “I don’t—oh, wait! Here, try this.”

The smooth screen of Michael’s iPad watches him dubiously. Oh, well, James decides, at least it’s better than trying to scratch letters into the carpet; and starts clumsily poking with the tip of one paw, when Michael brings up the keypad screen.

 _Steve_.

“Who?”

_The intern? Witch._

“ _Steve_ the _intern_ is a witch?”

James sighs. At least that one still translates. _Should only last a day but—_

“But?”

_Said he’s not very good at spells._

“Oh, fuck.”

Exactly. James meets Michael’s gaze, for a second, then looks back at the screen. _Sorry_.

“What? No, it’s not your fault, you—what can I do? To help?”

James, who has no idea but appreciates the sentiment, rubs his head against Michael’s hand again. Forcefully.

Michael starts to pet him, automatically, then stops. “Ah…James….”

James sighs. Gives Michael his best mournful pay-attention-to-me expression. Seems to work even from feline eyes.                     

“Okay, so…not strange if I pet you? You want me to pet you? Oh god. I’m so sorry. I’m never saying that sentence out loud again.” But the hand goes back to stroking his fur. It feels good there. “James, I—you know I’m here for you, right? As weird as this is, and it really is, I am here, I’m going to be here, we’ll figure it out together, okay? You know—oh fuck me.”

What? James looks up, worried at the unexpected onset of horror.

“You _do_ know. You were here—you heard me say—how I feel about you—you let me cry all over you and tell you I love you—oh, hell—” Michael now appears to be on the verge of hyperventilating; James mentally rolls his eyes, and then, because mere purring isn’t going to cut it, pokes at the iPad some more.

_You did. I heard you. I do, too._

“…what?”

_Love you. Why I asked you out._

“You…do?”

 _YES_.

“…really? James, I…I love you, too. I’m incredibly confused, and I love you.”

 _Yes!_ James agrees, and walks into Michael’s lap and purrs loudly, and Michael laughs, shakes his head, laughs again. “Okay. So we’re…we’re good? I mean…not good, this—you being a cat, that’s not—but us, together, we’re…all right?”

James considers options briefly, then extends delicate claws and starts kneading on the closest muscular thigh.

“Ow! Okay, yes, I do know that means you’re happy. You are happy. With me. You said…this should last about a day, right? When—”

_Not sure exactly. Afternoon. Maybe around two?_

They both look at the clock in unison, at that. 4:08. In the morning.

“So…we should wait and see what happens? Do you…want anything? Need anything? Or…maybe I should call someone, so they know—no one will ever believe this, will they?”

No, they won’t. This time he and Michael both sigh in unison.

“No…well, at least I know you’re safe. And other people will know, too, tomorrow. Um…Matthew put the production on hold for a couple of days, to look for you—”

James winces.

“No, it’s not your fault, and the next time I see that fucking idiot intern—he should probably hope I don’t see him, and also maybe I can get him fired, there must be some regulation about turning people into cats, I wonder if— Anyway. We’re staying here in the hotel all day, I think so that security can keep an eye on us. So, um, I’ll stay here with you?”

James nods again. Tucks his tail around himself, and settles into a comfortable ball, and makes a sound that’s meant to be _yes please_ but comes out as kind of a quiet trill.

Michael laughs. “Okay. Um, television? Movie, or something? I’m not sure I can sleep. I’m not sure I should—never mind.”

The effort at a raised eyebrow fails, but Michael seems to get it anyway. “Um. I was just—no, come on, don’t make me say it—fine, all right, I kind of want to stay awake and keep an eye on you. Not because it’s you, don’t scratch me, only because you said he’s not a very good witch and that means something might go wrong and I don’t want anything to go wrong and, um. I love you. Sorry.”

And James purrs happily, and shuts his eyes, and thinks, _I love you, too_.

Michael ends up falling asleep, exhausted, two-thirds of the way through _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_. James smiles a little cat-smile, Michael’s hand still resting on his back, and lets himself doze off as well.

 

The next day’s an interesting one. It begins with Michael waking up at nearly ten in the morning, looking horrified. “I’m so sorry—”

 _I’m fine_ , James types out, painstakingly, on the iPad. _You needed the rest. Anyway I fell asleep too_.

“But you—”

_No change. Don’t worry._

“You’re asking _me_ not to worry—James. Okay. Um, breakfast?”

Michael’s egg-white omelette is unexciting, but the accompanying turkey bacon proves to be an acceptable breakfast; this compromise happens after James loudly vetoes any consideration of sending someone out to buy actual kitten food. He has _some_ standards.

“I’m not sure you should have _all_ the bacon,” Michael says, and then gives it to him anyway. The rain bounces giddily on the windowpane, blowing sideways.

Four hours to kill; and they spend it mostly stretched out in bed, half-watching terrible movies—at one point _300_ comes on, and Michael says “Oh, _no_ —” and James sits peacefully atop the captive remote and purrs—and filling in crossword puzzles on the iPad, on which he’s getting better at typing. Michael occasionally answers phone calls, people checking in, and does his best to counterfeit the panic from earlier.

James suspects that it’s not all counterfeit. Michael keeps glancing at him with vaguely apprehensive eyes.

Michael wonders aloud at one point, employing a multitude of awkward pauses and _er_ s and _you know, if you need to, if you need the, cats use, um, anyway_ , whether they should find him a litterbox. James, once he stops wanting to leap out the window from sheer humiliation, runs into the bathroom and demonstrates that he can indeed flush a toilet if he needs to, thank _you_. Michael looks relieved, at that.

He takes a few kitten-naps, and wakes up, once, to find a small brown house-spider crawling along the wall, a couple of feet away.

He sits up. Focuses.

Michael sits up, too. “What—oh, it’s just a spider, come on, you can’t leave my terrible movies on if you’re not even going to watch them…”

The spider inches closer, all tantalizingly pounceable legs, and James feels his tail twitch and lets one paw hover in the air.

And then hears a hastily muffled noise from Michael’s direction. Turns his head, slowly, to where Michael’s heroically stifling a laugh, face turning red with the effort.

He freezes. Then wails, feline mortification, and dives under the bed.

“Oh, James, I’m sorry…” Michael gets down on the floor, too. Lifts up the corner of the blanket. James backs up to the wall, under the head of the bed. Tucks his paws in and makes himself small and immobile.

He’s perfectly aware that he’s sulking. He’s allowed. He’s a _cat_.

“Come on,” Michael says, sticking head and shoulders under the bed with him, “it was seriously hilarious, you can’t blame me for that, you’re adorable.”

James wonders whether it’d be worth his dignity to hiss. Possibly.

“You know you’d laugh if it were me hunting spiders.”

That’s likely true. He unfolds a paw. Considers Michael, there under hotel furniture, getting covered in bed-lint, for him.

He sighs, and lets Michael scoop him up, and eventually unflattens his ears and admits—only to himself—that, okay, it was kind of funny. As long as they never talk about it again.

The spider sits in the corner, mocking him. James ignores it for the rest of the afternoon. Michael pretends to ignore it, too, though he occasionally glances that way and his lips twitch.

They stay curled in bed together, rain billowing around their small hotel-room oasis, while the time goes by.

Five minutes to two. Michael looks at him. James shrugs, which doesn’t work that well with cat-shoulders, but what the hell.

“Um, okay,” Michael says, and sets him down in the center of the bed. “So…you should just sort of wake up human? I should…maybe go stand over there? You know, sort of…out of the way?”

James, who has no idea—he’d been asleep the first time—shrugs again. Lies down. Michael gazes from the side of the room, nervous.

1:59.

2:00.

Nothing happens.

James looks at Michael. Then at his furry kitten self. Then drops his head back onto the pillow. Shuts his eyes.

“No, wait,” Michael says, voice trembling, “you said _around_ two, right, you don’t know exactly when…”

Oh. True. He looks back at Michael, thumps his tail hopefully, and waits.

The change finally comes at 2:06 and twenty seconds. James has been looking fixedly at the clock; Michael, however, keeps looking at James, and a few times starts to walk over and pet him, and then visibly hesitates, unsure.

The air in the room crackles with anticipation, drawn-out and tense. And then it snaps.

The transformation doesn’t hurt, as such. More like a sort of full-body sneeze, abrupt and tingling.

The suddenness does leave him a bit dizzy, though, and when he opens his eyes and pushes himself up on an elbow—he has _elbows!_ —the sparkles swim around in his vision for a second, and he rather inelegantly flops back down.

“James,” Michael pleads, from very close to his face. Must’ve run to his side the second it seemed safe. “James?”

James opens his eyes again, more successfully, and finds Michael millimeters away, lips parted and eyes damp, and so really the only possible course of action is to tip his head up just enough and get a hand wrapped into Michael’s hair and pull them both into a kiss.

It’s a perfect moment, awkward angle and thundering heartbeats and all.

Michael kisses him gingerly at first, disbelieving; James runs his tongue along those worry-bitten lips and murmurs “Yes?” without letting him go, and Michael says _“James”_ again and then kisses him harder, breathless and overwhelming, as if trying to convince himself that this is all real.

James runs his hands along Michael’s shirt, tugging it free of clinging jeans. And then stops, a very important fact belatedly registering.

“I’m naked!”

“You’re naked!” Michael has also finally noticed this detail.

James lunges for the nearest sheet, feeling himself blushing everywhere; Michael says, “Wait, _what?_ ” and James stops and stares, clutching flimsy cotton. Thinks about where they are and what they’ve just been doing.

Then he looks up and meets Michael’s eyes, all mint-green with startled concern; looks back at his sheet, and then at Michael again, and then they both burst out laughing, collapsed over the bed.

“Oh, god,” James gets out, eventually, “this is ridiculous, isn’t it, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize, I got to see you naked—”

“Want to see me naked again?”

“Only always. Hey—you have freckles here. And over here. And—”

“I have a lot of freckles. Why aren’t you naked too?”

“I can be—wait, James, since when do you have _ginger_ hair?”

“Stop noticing that, that’s embarrassing—”

“No it’s not, I love that you’re secretly a redhead—I love _you_ —are you honestly self-conscious about this? Or—”

“No, not really…I don’t know, I’ve had a confusing day, all right? And I love you. Kiss me again?”

“Like this?” Michael runs a hand over his cheek, after, fingers trailing down to his lips; James kisses them, too, lightly, and enjoys the resultant expression. “James…you are all right, aren’t you? I mean…when you woke up, for a second, you looked—”

“Oh. I was just lightheaded, right then. I’m fine.”

“Lightheaded?”

“I think it was only me adapting to being person-shaped again. Entirely all right now. It went away.” He smiles up at Michael, hovering there over him, all alerted protectiveness. Feels utterly content. “You can get back to what you were doing.”

Michael mutters something about doctors and check-ups and tomorrow, but goes back to kissing him, lips trailing fire along his jawline and throat and shoulder, so James decides this is a successful compromise, and gets back to trying to peel off Michael’s shirt through all the distractions.

And then there’s a knock at the door, followed by a hesitant voice. “Mr Fassbender? Matthew sent me up to check in? And see if you needed anything? And if you—”

“ _Him_ ,” Michael hisses, and lunges off the bed and slams the door open and shut and flattens Steve up against the wall in a single impressive movement. “Give me one good reason not to _seriously_ injure you.”

James dives under the nearest blanket as the door opens, covers up all the nakedness with helpful fabric, and then looks up and yells, just in time, “Michael! No strangling!”

“I’m in favor of the no strangling—also, hey, you’re human, and wait, why are you in his room— _argh_ —”

“He turned you into a kitten!”

“I got better! And anyway I love you, and I woke up in your bed, and that part probably wouldn’t’ve happened, or not so fast anyway, without him, so put him _down_.”

Michael, without taking his hand off Steve’s throat, looks at James with adoring eyes. “I love you, too.”

“James,” Steve attempts, around Michael’s death-grip, “I’m really sorry, I’m so glad you’re all right, I feel awful about this—”

_“As you should.”_

“Michael!”

“Fine.” Michael removes the hand. Lets the poor intern drop to the floor. “Only because you’re asking. I don’t like him.”

“You don’t have to like him—and I’m not saying I’m not angry at him—” Steve droops pathetically. James nearly gives in, but, really, the boy turned him into a cat. He shouldn’t expect forgiveness too soon.

“—but you still can’t strangle him.”

“ _Really_ angry at me?”

“Extremely. Sorry.”

“Oh…” Steve looks despondent, for a moment, then brightens up. “What if I go tell everyone you’re all right? And it was all…some sort of…misunderstanding?”

“Oh, god,” James says, realizing. “How _are_ we going to explain this? I mean, I’m not missing…but we can’t exactly tell people where I was…”

“And you’re in my hotel room,” Michael observes. “Naked.” And then comes back over and slips an arm under James’s sheet, sneakily. “I like you naked.”

“Mmm…”

“Guys!” Steve protests, wisely not getting up from the floor. “Still here!”

“Can I at least punch him in the face?”

“I’d not mind if you did, personally, but no.”

“Fine. What do you want to do?”

“Um…” He leans into Michael’s taller warmth. The air, damp with the presence of rain, is cold, and he has much less fur than he had a few minutes ago. Michael puts both arms around him and cuddles him and visibly tries to radiate extra heat.

“I could…well, I can say I don’t remember anything. Traumatic experiences and all. They’ll believe me. But unless you want people to think you kidnapped me, we probably shouldn’t find me in your hotel room.”

“Can I kidnap you later?”

“Yes. Especially if you do _that_ with your hand again.”

“This?”

“ _Guys_. Seriously.”

“Shut up, Steve,” Michael grumbles, and Steve says, “No, wait, I’ve got an idea, there’re vacant rooms in this hotel, right? There’s the one right next to yours? So what if we put James in there, and lock him in, and he pretends to wake up and yell for help, and then we sort of find him?”

“You want us to break into a hotel room?”

“ _Witch_ ,” Steve says. “I can unlock doors. Um, most doors. Most of the time.”

James looks up at Michael, raises eyebrows, shrugs. “Might work. Want to rescue me?”

“Always,” Michael agrees, and kisses him.

“I love you.”

“You, too.”

“And I love happy endings,” Steve says cheerfully. “And kittens. Hey, would you guys ever think about—”

“No.”

“Maybe?”

“What?”

“Come on,” James says, grinning, “you were adorable. Milk, and tuna, and cuddling…you’re totally a cat person. And I like cats, as long as I don’t have to be one. And…I wouldn’t mind. Y’know. Having a cat. With you.”

Michael sighs, and kisses him again, and ignores Steve’s triumphant expression, and concedes, “This time we’re actually calling it Magneto.”


End file.
